


Reflections of the Desperate and Dumb

by wandarox



Series: Reflections [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Drug Use, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-19 16:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18138197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandarox/pseuds/wandarox
Summary: Driving for Uber by day and fucking strangers by night, Justin Perkins is intimately familiar with desperation and idiocy. However, ignoring your best friend’s advice and falling for someone who has stated multiple times that he’s still hung up on his ex… well, that’s just Justin in a nutshell.Daniel “Peaches” Caudlin is neither rich nor hot, a Los Angeles anomaly. In fact, he’s about as average as average can be, but his soft-spoken demeanor and unassuming kindness is what draws Justin in, even as Peaches warns him that he is still pining over his ex– someone who actually is hot. Way hotter than Justin, in fact, and superior in nearly every way. So what does Justin do when everything blows up and everything people warned him might happen actually happens?The dumbest and most desperate option, of course – reunite with his own ex and hope for the best.





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One

 

            I normally didn’t go to live shows for bands I’d never listened to, but Sven insisted they were good. I didn’t tend to trust Sven’s taste on anything outside women, which to date was just one woman. When he wasn’t working he was high, and so I took his enjoyment of things with a grain of salt.

            “I know my music,” Sven insisted from the passenger seat. He had wanted to drive, but Josh never trusted his claims of sobriety. “These guys are really good.”

            “We all know music,” Josh said from behind the wheel, rubbing his temple.

            “You two are such haters,” Sven muttered. “Sorry to drag you away from Pornhub and your hands tonight or whatever the fuck you two do when home and alone.”

            “Wow, project much?” Josh asked with a chuckle.

            “I’m the only one here with a significant other, so I think it’s pretty safe to assume—”

            “You still jack it more than both of us combined, Sven,” I said.

            “How would _you_ know?”

            Josh snorted and started laughing around his reply. “You are a masturbation _poster_ child.”

            “I have a _girlfriend_ who actually likes to fuck me, so you two can shut the hell up.”

            Josh and I shared a smile through the review mirror.

            “What is your girlfriend going to be doing while we’re at this show?” Josh asked.

            “She’s working tonight. She couldn’t get off.”

            “Bummer. Though without her, you may get through a whole show without a blunt.”

            “I do not smoke _that_ much pot.”

            Josh rolled his eyes. Sven continued to insist he didn’t have a problem, which reminded me a bit of what I used to say back before I’d gone to rehab. Luckily I’d replaced that addiction with a variety of other vices, mostly drinking and casual sex, none of which were destroying my life. Yet.

            I wouldn’t put it past me to fuck myself over.

            “I’ve never shown up to work high—ever. Can you _imagine_ what would happen if I did? Holy shit.”

            “Yeah, it’s probably not a good idea to work at a hospital while high.”

            “I’d end up _killing_ someone.”  
            “You’re just lucky they don’t drug test you nurses.”

            “If they did, I’d just switch it with someone else’s. It’s not like urine is hard to find in a hospital.” Sven twisted around in his seat, then back again, peering through the darkness. “I think this bar is somewhere around here.”

            “Somewhere around here” ended up being a block away. Luckily there was a large parking lot across the street, so we managed to snag parking without too much trouble. Several other groups of people were doing the same, the women dressed in jeans and crop tops, the sort of thing you wore to rock shows in cramped, overheated spaces.

            “Nice pants, by the way,” Josh told me as he arrived at my side. He gestured toward my leopard-print pants. “Very 80’s.”

            “Where do you wear animal print pants if not to a concert?”

            “Not much of a _concert_ ,” Sven said as we headed across the parking lot. “This place is pretty small. It’s gonna be _packed_.”

            “You sure?”

            “Oh, definitely. This band always draws big crowds. They’re good. And the guy I know… he’s pretty cool. He says we can find him after the show and share a couple beers if we want.”

            “Do we have to buy merchandise?”

            Sven laughed. “I don’t think so, but you can ask.”

            “How do you know this guy, anyway?”  
            Sven shrugged. “Around.”

            The real answer was that potheads all knew each other somehow, even in a city as large as Los Angeles. When he got high, Sven tended to stay inside and eat Fritos with his girlfriend, but on the rare occasions he was sober, he could be quite the socialite. I wasn’t a recluse myself, but most of the people I met while out on the prowl I didn’t remember too well the next day. I found it hard to make casual friends in the same way Sven could.

            There were no bouncers at the door, but there was a guy on a stool checking IDs, which meant a minute or two of waiting in line. The bar _was_ packed, and it took five minutes to push our way toward it, where the bartenders were overwhelmed. Josh told us to find a spot somewhere to stand while he waited for our booze. I grabbed Sven’s sleeve and let him guide me deeper into the performance space, where a large dance floor spanned out in front of a narrow stage with old neon signs blazing through the darkness.

            “Are they the first to play?” I asked Sven in a voice loud enough to carry over at least a hundred other conversations.

            “Yup,” Sven replied, already digging for his phone and tapping out a text. He was probably talking to Carlita. She was not quite as dedicated to job performance as her boyfriend, so I wouldn’t put it past her to text while she waitressed. I didn’t even want to know what they were saying to each other. Probably something gross. Since I met him, I’d met several of Sven’s partners, but he hadn’t been attached to any of them like he was to Carlita. Maybe it was her feminine wiles, considering she was the first woman Sven ever dated.

            “This isn’t a queer band, is it?” I asked Sven.

            “Hell no. Why? You planning on some after show hanky panky?”

            How did Sven, someone from Sweden, even know what _hanky panky_ was? True, he barely had an accent and his English vocabulary was beyond mine most of the time, but _hanky panky_ felt too colloquial.

            “Depends on how much I drink,” I joked, just as Josh arrived with drinks. He’d only gotten one beer for me, which I had anticipated. Josh and I frequented plenty of bars, but he ragged on my drinking habits so much that I always toned it down around him, to the point I almost drank like a normal person.

            “I’m sure no one roofied this,” Josh said as he handed me the open bottle.

            “Gee, thanks. Pretty sure no one here would want to.”

            Josh peered around the crowd of mostly white dudes with unbrushed long hair and predominantly black outfits. This was a group of people who still thought cargo pants were acceptable attire at a music event, so… painfully hetero, it seemed.

            “There may be a few stealthy homos,” Josh said with a chuckle. “You _do_ have a talent with the straight guys.”

            “Yeah, ‘straight’.” Sven made quotes with his fingers before throwing back some beer. “Just like I’m ‘gay’.”

            “I know how homophobic metalheads can be. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn these pants.”

            “Don’t sweat it, man,” Sven insisted. “It’ll be fine. No one is looking at your pants. If anyone says shit, it’ll be about the guyliner.”

            “Would you please stop calling it ‘guyliner’ like I’m some kind of insecure manchild? It’s eyeliner. And eye shadow. Besides, plenty of manly man rockers have worn make-up, so it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

            “You’re not a manly man.”

            “I can certainly kick ass like one.”

            Josh snorted, then coughed a little on his drink. When I glared at him, he wiped at the corner of his eyes.

            “Justin, you are five-foot-eight and a hundred-forty soaking wet.”

            “I’ve kicked more ass than you ever have, Josh.”

            “Yeah, cuz I solve my problems like an adult.”

            I glared at him, but I couldn’t get in a word before the lights flashed and someone came out on stage to introduce the band, named _Pugnacious_. Everyone around me screeched with such enthusiasm my ears rang before the music even started. Then the band bounced onto the stage, five men in their early twenties. Some looked more conventional than other, but my attention was immediately drawn to the guitarist and the bass player. Their different haircuts made it initially difficult to tell, but after staring between them for a few moments, I realized they had to be identical twins. That really didn’t draw my interest half as much as how _hot_ they were. The one with the shaggier hair winked and smiled at the crowd, clearly loving the attention of several screaming female fans up front. Someone cried “ _take off your shirt_ ”, and into the microphone the guitarist said, “Afterward you can get a private show.”

            “Wow,” Josh muttered next to me, and I laughed.

            “Is that the guy you know?” I called to Sven as the volume levels around me rose.

            “Nah. I know the black guy.”

            There was one black guy with bleached hair who also held a guitar. The vocalist was a scrawny guy with long black hair, probably the least attractive of the group. Sneaking around the shadows behind the stage was a white guy with his hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a sweatshirt despite the heat of the lights and crowd.

            They looked like a motley crew of performers, but once they started into their first song, I could see why they were popular. Their sound sat somewhere between rock and indie, and their vocalist had a stronger voice than his skinny frame suggested. Their accompaniment was tight, and as little as I knew about drumming, I thought their drummer was especially talented. By the third song, I was joining the crowd in their pulsing dance, forgetting that I wasn’t amongst my usual type of people. I begged Josh to join, knowing he’d want to stand to the side and observe. Josh was a clown and outgoing enough to win friends wherever he went, but despite his denial, he was self-conscious about his weight. He may have been considered “too fat” at a gay bar, but there were plenty of bigger guys here, most of whom were less graceful and less groomed. If they could dance and enjoy themselves, there was no reason Josh couldn’t try.

            Pugnacious enjoyed performing, which the crowd reflected with enthusiasm. I picked up on that energy, and I danced until I was out of breath. Then I shoved my way to the bar and got another beer, which I chugged down quick so that I could back to the dance floor.

            After the set, Sven demanded we step outside to meet the band at their van. We headed out to the fenced, tight alley where a small party had already gathered. To no one’s surprise, the hot twins were surrounded by a cluster of women, most of them tattooed and built like gym goddesses. The others were more approachable, and Sven was quick to introduce us to Hector, who had invited us to the show. As we talked, he smiled often with teeth about as white as his hair. The long-haired vocalist was Zared, which I assumed was a fake name because who the hell named their child _Zared_. The hot twins were Griffin and Oliver, but we didn’t get to talk to them, as they had little interest in any of the men drifting around. As Sven and Hector delved deeper into a conversation with Josh about music, I noticed the band’s drummer, shuffling around in the shadows like he had onstage. He tossed open the back door of the van and seemed to be struggling to lift an amp inside.

            “You need help?” I asked, stepping up beside him. He started and twisted around to look up at me from his crouch. I hadn’t been able to see him that well on stage when he was hidden behind cymbals and a snare drum. He had a long, narrow face, a large Roman nose, and a melancholic shape to his eyes that nearly had me asking what was wrong. He wasn’t classically handsome for sure, but he had the open, kind face of someone you could trust with dark shit.

            “Oh, uh, sure, if you want to.” He jerked his head over to Oliver and Griffin. “Not like they’re gonna help me.”

            I smiled and helped him lift the amp into the back of the van. I was stringy and weak by most standards, but between the two of us, we managed. Once he’d dragged the last amp to its final resting space and jumped out of the van, I said, “I’m Justin.”

            “Peaches,” he replied. Before I could respond, he said. “Yes, I know it’s weird. No, it’s not my birth name, which is confidential.”

            “Now you’ve only made me _more_ curious.”

            “Have fun figuring it out,” he said with a small smile.

            “You must like being mysterious.”

            “If that makes me seem more interesting, sure.”

            Sensing the end of that thread of conversation, I switched topics. “I really liked the show. I’ve never heard you guys before, but it was great. You’ve got real skill.”

            “Are you a musician?” Peaches asked.

            “A little bit. I can play the guitar and sing.” I hated to turn the conversation toward me, fearing Peaches might ask for details. Josh, Sven and I had our own little band for a while, but like most budding garage bands, we petered out. We had solid talents to build on, but we also had busy lives that made collaboration difficult. When you had an adult job and adult bills, music took the back seat.

            “Oh, yeah? That’s great. In that outfit, you’re already halfway to being a rock star.”

            I laughed, looking down at my cowboy boots, animal print leggings, and long gray tank top ripped at several seams. On top of the heavy black eye shadow and full sleeve tattoos that were my trademark, I wasn’t subtle. I never had been, nor could I ever be. When blending into the wallpaper never worked, I learned to own the space I occupied in the way I wanted. “Yeah, this is me dressed down.”

            “I like it.” When I met his gaze, a touch of pink appeared in his cheeks. “I mean, the outfit.”

            “It’s a good way of getting people’s attention, even if the attention is bad.”

            Peaches sobered instantly, as if I’d just insulted his mother. Instead of cursing me out, he said, “Fuck what other people think. You do you.”

            “I’m trying.” I was ninety-five percent sure Peaches was straight, but he was handling this pretty well. According to Josh, I made a lot of straight men uncomfortable, at least until some of them got so drunk that I started looking appealing. Fuck, I made _gay_ men uncomfortable, at least the ones who looked down their noses at anyone more gay acting than Vin Diesel. They didn’t seem to mind me so much when their dicks were in my mouth. It didn’t help that I could get a nasty attitude about condescending bullshit. I may have been five-eight and one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, but I was called a crazy bitch so many times in my life that I asked Josh that it be etched on my gravestone.

            “I think that’s brave,” Peaches replied. “To be different and unapologetic about it.”

            “Unapologetic is my middle name.”

            “Did anyone at the show give you any shit?”

            “No, everyone was perfectly cordial.” I couldn’t help but smile a little. “But thank you for the concern.”

            “That’s good. I’d hate to think anyone felt unwelcome at our shows. Oliver sticks his foot in his mouth a lot, but generally we’re all pretty open-minded here. They have to be, with Essie as our unofficial mascot.”

            “Who is—”

            “Are they making you work by yourself all again?” asked someone who had crept up behind me without my knowledge. I turned, practically colliding with someone’s chest. When I looked up, I found myself face-to-face with someone very tall, very broad, very blond, and very, _very_ flamboyant.

            “Essie!” Peaches exclaimed with an uncertain smile. “Speaking of the devil.”

            “Speaking of a _goddess_ , you mean,” Essie said with a sweep of his fingers, each tipped with a hot pink nail. It took a moment to make sense of him, because he wasn’t your typical swishy twink. Essie had muscle and height and the looks of someone you’d imagine as an all-American beefcake, which was in total opposition to the way he moved and spoke. He was also wearing floral pants and some fat sparkly earrings. With a frown, he placed a hand on a cocked hip. “Have you asked anyone for help?”

            “Justin’s been helping.”

            Only then did Essie seem to notice my presence. Some of his irritation drained away to reveal a perky smile and bright blue eyes. I was still somewhat speechless, never having encountered someone so… animated. I was a Grade A Queen, but even I wondered if maybe Essie should tone it down.

            “Is he making you work?” Essie asked me.

            “I offered, actually.”

            “Let _these_ idiots do the grunt work.” Essie waved a hand toward the other band members. “I swear to God, Peaches thinks that pulling all the weight and then never complaining about it is good sportsmanship or something. They can stand to be yelled at. Hey! Hector! What are you doing, letting Peaches put all the shit away?”

            “He seems to have it under control,” Hector replied through a mouth full of what looked like oatmeal bar.

            Essie’s scowl was impressive, and backed up by his toned frame, it wasn’t without any veiled threat. But with a dramatic roll of his eyes, he turned back to me.

            “I hope you get a free drink out of this.”

            “It’s fine. I don’t mind. It’s a good work out.”

            “Are you sure? Honestly! The nerve!”

            “Give it a rest, Essie,” Peaches said. “No one is as upset about this as you are.”

            “I don’t appreciate people walking all over you,” Essie shot back with some venom, and I wondered if there was something deeper to this argument. Peaches really hadn’t done anything to warrant reprimand.

            “I don’t mind doing this. When it bothers me, I’ll let the guys know. I’m not their slave.”

            “Are you _sure_ you’ll let them know? Because you seem to prefer bottling things up and never talking about it.”

            Peaches stared at Essie for a long, strained moment which definitely cemented my assumption that this was about more than putting away some damn amps. “Can we not right now?” Peaches pleaded.

            “You’re right.” Essie returned his gaze to me. “Did you enjoy the show?”

            “I did,” I said, still glancing between Peaches and Essie. Peaches looked more tense now than he had before Essie’s arrival. “Uh, if you two want some privacy…”

            “Oh, no no no.” Essie waved his hands frantically. “No, absolutely not. I don’t want to interfere with fan relations. I’m going to be heading home right now anyway. Peaches, are you coming with me or will Oliver take you home?”

            “Oliver, probably.”

            “Okay. Don’t drink too much, and for God’s sake, let one of the others put away your damn drums.”

            “Sure. No problem. See you at home.”

            To my shock, Essie leaned and pecked Peaches on the mouth before shouting out farewells to the others before striding off. Was Peaches _gay_? My gay-dar was usually foolproof, and it didn’t ping for any of these guys, Peaches the _least_. He couldn’t dress himself well. He hadn’t given me any lingering looks. Not to say I was everyone’s cup of tea, but most guys sensed that I was easy and took advantage when there were no better fish in the pond.

            I began to wonder if I’d gotten Essie all wrong. _Essie_ , after all, was not really a man’s name.

            “If this is rude please stop me, but is Essie, uh, transgen—”

            “Genderqueer,” Peaches replied. His gaze was now on his feet.

            “Oh. And you two are… together?”

            “Yeah.”  
            “That’s… I mean, he seems… nice?”

            “He is.”

            Our conversation, which had previously felt natural and easy, now felt like a frantic search for anything, _anything_ to fill the awkward silence. I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of misdeed had preceded Essie’s comments about bottling things up. I’d spent enough time around men to know that bottling things up was kind of _their thing_ , and I was guilty of it, too. Peaches seemed like the type, but I wasn’t going to hold it against him. If that was his only crime, then he couldn’t be that bad.

            A hand fell on my shoulder, and I twisted around toward Josh, who was already reaching out for Peaches’s hand. Josh’s entry helped unlock some of the tension, but something in Peaches’s face had shuttered, and even after we’d said our good-byes and headed back to the car, I wondered about him.

           

***

 

            “Hungover?”

            “No.” I grabbed a cereal box and pulled open the top. “I didn’t drink much last night.”

            I heard Zoe crunching on her cereal behind me, and I could feel her gaze as well as I could imagine it: eyes narrowed, lips pursed, vaguely resembling the disdain her father/my step-dad lobbed at me whenever within range. Stupid fucking Gary.

            “So what is that?” Zoe continued, deeming it safe. “Like, six bottles?”

            “Try two.”

            “Vodka?”

            “No, _beer_ , idiot.” I splashed some milk on the cereal and returned the jug to the refrigerator before collapsing onto a chair across from her. I often regretted accepting her offer of rooming together, but considering my shitty salary and the quality of the apartment Gary put us up in, I didn’t see the situation changing any time soon. She was often gone, at school or with friends, so I didn’t always have to deal with her judgment. “Not that you would know what that is.”

            “I drink, sometimes,” she replied, primly eating her cereal like it was some kind of filet mignon. “Socially.”

            “How can you be a social drinker in college?”

            “It’s called restraint. I don’t imagine you know what that is.”

            “Are you going to lecture me? I sense a lecture coming on, and I want to make sure to take notes. Don’t wanna flunk the test.”

            Zoe chewed on her cereal for a moment before saying, “Dad’s supposed to be around in the next hour or so.”

            “So I should make myself scarce.”

            “Or you could try to be civil.”

            I snorted. What a joke. If I never saw Gary again in my life, it’d be a life well lived. “Or I could poke out my eyes with a hot fork. It would be time better spent.”

            “When was the last time you actually talked to him?”

            “If I had my way, it would have been the day I turned eighteen.”

            “He paid for your rehab.”

            “Okay, the day I graduated from rehab.”

            Zoe shook her head. “Look, I don’t really care, but I’m sick of trying to play mediator between you two. I have no idea why you can’t just, like, _not_ be a shithead to him for the fifteen minutes he’s here.”

            “He’s been a shithead to me my whole life. You reap what you sow.”

            Zoe sighed and gave up, leaning her head on a fist and staring down at her bowl of Trix. I had always worried about rooming with Zoe, because not only did it mean putting up with my sister but it meant accepting heavily discounted rent from my asshole of a step-father. I didn’t want to owe him anything, because he already spent enough time telling me how _grateful_ I should be that he’d paid for my rehab five years ago.

            Nope. Fuck that motherfucker. He was a decent person to Zoe. She’d never understand. Even my mother stuck up for him, and Gary treated her like shit, too. I was going to be the one person in his sad life that didn’t give him the time of day.

            I shoved as much cereal in my mouth as I could handle, finishing in record time. Without a word to Zoe, I sprinted to my room, threw on some clothes, jammed all my shit into a bag, and then flew toward the door. Zoe was still eating her cereal by the time I tossed open the front door and headed to my car. Unfortunately, it was blocked in the parking spot by a sleek red BMW convertible.

            “Fucking _Gary_ ,” I muttered under my breath as the man in question slipped out of the car and used a hand to slick back his thinning hair. He turned to me, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses. I wanted to grab them off his face and throw them across the road. Luckily I’d been quelling such impulses for a long time.

            “Would you mind letting me drive out?” I asked, gesturing toward my car. It looked sad and demoralized boxed in by Zoe’s new Volkswagen Beetle and Gary’s mid-life-crisis-mobile. Zoe’s car was technically Gary’s. He’d bought it for her last year as a high school graduation present. I don’t even think he showed up to my pathetic graduation ceremony, which had been held in a gymnasium with twenty other delinquents who talked over the whole thing.

            “Where you off to?” he asked.

            “Work.”

            “At ten on a Sunday?”  
            “I make my own hours.”

            “Who needs a cab at this time?”

            “Grannies coming home from church. Why do you care?”

            Gary frowned. He was obviously going to start—

            “Is the attitude really needed?”

            --tone policing like he always did. I didn’t want to fight him because it left me angry for the rest of the day, but I could feel my temper rising. I was always a bit short-fused, but Gary’s presence took me from zero to sixty in seconds.

            “Fine. Can you _please_ back up your car so I can get out?”

            “When was the last time you talked to your mother?”

            He was going to draw this out as long as possible. He loved wasting my time. “I don’t know, last week?”

            “You should call her.”

            “Okay. Thanks. Will do.”

            Gary stared at me another few beats, as if trying to figure out another thing to pester me with before finally ducking back into his car and driving it far enough to release my car from its prison. I jumped into my car and swung out of the driveway, resisting the urge to throw stupid Gary a middle finger as I roared past him.

            Because Gary’s ominous advice about calling my mother kept tugging at my mind, I pulled into an In-N-Out parking lot and dialed her number.

            “Hello, honey,” she greeted.

            “Did you tell Gary to tell me to call you?”

            “I don’t think so. Why? Where is he? Is he there with you now?”

            “He stopped by the house to hassle me about calling you.”

            “Huh. Well, I do worry about you a lot. He may have picked up on it.”

            “He’s not observant to the feelings of others, so I doubt that.”

            “Justin…”

            “Anyway, what’s up with you?”

            My mother didn’t miss the dodge, but she must have decided to let it go, because she started to tell me about all the minor events in her life, including the several classes she was taking on medical administration. Her hope was to get a job working in a doctor’s office, filing insurance and all that shit that sounded painfully boring to me. I was happy for her; she hadn’t had a full-time job since I was a baby, so it was important that she gain some independence from her poisonous husband. They were at marriage counseling now (something I had to learn through Zoe, unfortunately), and I secretly hoped they’d get a divorce. Gary was a huge tool, and he had never treated my mother well, especially when she stuck up for me. She was used to bad treatment. Her mother was a bitch, and her dad was emotionally deprived, uninterested in his children. She’d grown up with money, and I think not having it frightened her. She’d lived several years on the edge of poverty trying to escape my hell spawn grandmother, which was how she met my biological father in Montana. She never said I was an accident, but I knew I definitely _was_ an accident, and I tried not to blame her for reacting the way she did. She didn’t want to be an impoverished single mother. She wanted to give me a life better than that. Which meant marrying fucking Gary, who made us all more miserable than we probably would have been poor.

            “You know, I’ve been looking into programs at the community college,” Mom said around a mouthful of something crunchy. “They’re really quite affordable, if you ever want to look into it.”

            “Mom.”

            “I know how you are about school, but you’re so _smart_ , and I think you’ve got more potential than you realize.”

            “What in the world convinced you I was smart?”

            “Justin, now, _really_.”

            “Barely getting a high school diploma does not equal _smart_.”

            “It doesn’t equal stupid either. You know why you barely graduated.”

            “Even without rehab, I got Ds and Cs in everything.”

            “Because you were doing cocaine at the time.”

            “Mom, kids do cocaine at frickin’ Harvard to get through exams. It’s a stimulant. It’s supposed to make you _better_ at things, not worse.”

            “You know what I’m talking about, Justin, and don’t play dumb with me. You were out partying and doing drugs and drinking, none of which is conducive to study. You’re not doing any of that anymore, so I think you’d do much better.”

            I wasn’t doing drugs, and I guess going to gay clubs every other weekend to suck dick and get wasted wasn’t really considered _partying_ , but I wasn’t going to fill her in about that. “Mom, it’s time you give up on the dream of me becoming a doctor or whatever.”

            “You don’t need to be a doctor. I’d be fine with you doing a variety of things, but driving for Uber … honey, I just think you could stand to do something that pays better and has more opportunity.”

            “Yeah, Gary says cab driving isn’t something white people do.”

            “Gary has never said that, Justin.”

            He hadn’t, but he probably thought it. Casual racism was sort of his thing. I remember several times he teased me for my “Jew hair”. Never mind I was not Jewish, nor was anyone in my immediate family. But Gary’s “teasing” had led to several years of me straightening my hair in your typical sad emo boy cut, back when that sort of thing was trendy. Nowadays I’d come to terms with the tight dark curls that brought me as close to a fro as a white boy could get. I even liked them at times.

            “I could be a porn star,” I told her. “I’m pretty good at that sort of thing.”

            “I wish you’d be serious about this.”

            “Mom, please put all your effort into Zoe. She’ll eventually be a lawyer, and you can brag about her all you like on Facebook.”

            “I don’t have to worry about Zoe. Zoe will be fine. You’ve always been the one that concerns me.”

            “I’m not on drugs, my job is fine, and I’m not going back to school. My life is chill.”

            “Are you still hanging out with Josh?”

            She asked me this _every_ time I talked to her. She seemed to think Josh was the only person keeping me from tumbling over the precipice, which had basis in some fact. I’d met Josh during some hard times, and he’d been the supportive friend I’d needed. He didn’t drink too much or do drugs, and despite my offers, he never went to any clubs to hook up with people. Because of him, I’d avoided falling back into old habits, but I had also alienated all of my old friends, so I could also give myself some credit.

            “Yes, Mom.”

            “You need to bring him back over here sometime. I haven’t spoken to him in forever. I want to know what’s going up with him and his family. Are they all doing well?”

            “Last time I checked.” Unlike me, Josh had a wonderful functional family who joked around the dinner table and liked being around one another. I should have enjoyed them, but it felt too weird and alien, like invading someone else’s party. “Josh should give you his mom’s number. You two might want to hang out.”

            “If she wouldn’t mind, I wouldn’t.”

            I promised her I’d get Josh’s mother’s number, hoping that Josh’s mother could talk some sense into her. _Divorce your fuckwad husband, Maureen. Punch your awful mother in the face_. _Tell your son he’s your favorite child._ Yes. These were all things that needed to be said.

            After ending my conversation with my mother on a high note, I jammed the car into drive and pulled into the drive-up. Why not load up on unhealthy junk food after a night of drinking and a morning of sleep? Even if I did end up putting on a pound or two, it would be a good thing.

            I was scrawny as fuck.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_Two Months Later_

 

            I didn’t have a favorite gay bar, because in general, I didn’t even _like_ gay bars. They tended to cater to niches—bears, queens, bikers, whatever you could find scraping under the cabinets of Los Angeles’ kitchen. But there was no lack of them, especially in West Hollywood, and if drinking and fucking were my only two priorities, I found what I needed at every one. The drinking part was the easiest, but sometimes I had a little trouble with the fucking. I was my own niche, and not everyone’s cup of tea. Josh and Sven were stealthy; I was not. I could have made up for it if I had a great body, but I didn’t. So what I had left was personality and charisma. I could flirt my way out of anything (except maybe speeding tickets), but I was often described as _intense_ , and the heavy black eye shadow I always applied probably didn’t help.

            The bar I picked that night was pretty low-key without being nasty, which was hard to find. There was no dancing, just a lot of friends and couples squeezed into tables and booths, drinking custom concoctions with weird names like _Pink Gem_ and _Dark Purpose_. I couldn’t afford anything but the very basic, so I ordered a tallboy of PBR and nursed it as I tried to cast discrete looks around the bar. The selection wasn’t great, and so far I didn’t catch any interested parties ogling me.

            The door swung open, and I turned to look at the newcomers. To my surprise, I recognized them. It would be hard not to: two of them were the identical twins from the band _Pugnacious_. Trailing behind them was Peaches, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

            “Hey,” I said, loud enough to carry over the conversations of others. All three of them turned to me. “You three playing here or what?”

            “Do I know you?” Oliver asked. Unlike me, he had no issue getting the attention of nearly everyone there.

            “We briefly met a few months ago at a show. My friend Sven introduced us.”

            “Justin,” Peaches told Oliver.

            “Not ringing a bell. But clearly Peaches remembers you.” Oliver glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “He’s better at faces than I am.”

            “What are you guys doing here if you aren’t playing?”

            The three stepped over to the bar, and Oliver made himself at home on the stool next to me. Before I could hold out some hope that he was batting for my team, he said, “Peaches has been moping around the house for the past two weeks, so we dragged him out here in hopes it might cheer him up a bit.” Oliver reached over to clap Peaches on the back. Peaches seemed to barely tolerate the gesture. “Sit down, dude. Geez, you look like you’re in pain.”

            “I didn’t really want to come here.”

            “Too fucking bad. Sit. Drink. Stop looking so pathetic. You’re driving me nuts.”

            Peaches rolled his eyes but sat down on the other side of Oliver. Griffin, who seemed to be the less talkative twin, already started ordering drinks for them.

            “So how do gay bars work?” Oliver asked, making no effort to keep his voice down.

            “Like any other bar.”

            “I assume it’s a lot easier to get laid though.”

            “Probably.”

            “Shit.” Oliver pulled off his baseball cap to swipe his hair back before shoving the cap back down. Somehow he made the gesture seem alluring. “Shoulda been born gay.”

            “Shut up,” Griffin chided. “You get laid more than any straight dude I know.”

            Oliver smirked and winked at me, which made me snort. He seemed to sit halfway between arrogant and confident, a good quality to have around people interested in boning you. I could see why women liked him, if his looks weren’t enough of a reason.

            “Griffin doesn’t do too bad. This sucker though—” Oliver jammed his thumb toward Peaches. “He couldn’t flirt his way out of cardboard box. Can you believe that I picked out his outfit tonight? It’s like _I’m_ his sassy gay friend.”

            “You sure know how to sell me, Oliver,” Peaches replied.

            “Oh shit, I’m supposed to be selling you?”  
            “Fuck you, Oliver.” Peaches accepted a beer and took a sip.

            “He seemed really cool when I talked to him,” I offered, because I wasn’t sure how much of Oliver’s teasing was welcome, and I wanted to lend Peaches a hand.

            “Yeah, he’s cool I guess.”

            “You two should go someplace else,” Peaches muttered, “if all you’re gonna do is give me a hard time.”

            “We just ordered drinks. I’m not leaving until I finish it.”

            So while Peaches miserably sipped at his own beer, Griffin and Oliver carried on their own conversation with me. More and more I saw why women liked them. _I_ liked them, and I tended to avoid straight guys if I could, at least when they weren’t drunk and feeling bicurious. Oliver and Griffin didn’t seem to mind my overt mannerisms, but hanging around Peaches’s boyfriend probably made them immune to an occasional limp wrist. In fact, by the time Oliver finished his beer, he was halfway flirtatious, in that casual way men were to women they’d never fuck.

            “I suppose I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Oliver finally said, wrapping his knuckles on the bar. “Peaches is still sitting over there brooding, so Griffin and I are gonna split and take a walk. Peaches, you stay here and chat with your brethren. Or scowl at your drink. Just drink enough to loosen up, alright?”

            “You are seriously leaving?”

            “Not forever, just an hour or so. Griffin and I got some shit to do, but you’re better off here.” Oliver reached out and patted Peaches on the back. “Throw down some beers. You need it.”

            Peaches sighed and didn’t argue, and with a lazy salute at me, the twins left. In their absence was an awkward silence, and I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I knew how to be flirtatious and charming, but Peaches didn’t seem like he was in the mood for it.

            “Something wrong?” I asked him, because I couldn’t help but be curious.

            “I broke up with my boyfriend,” Peaches said, so readily that I wondered if he’d been waiting for me to ask.

            “Oh geez, that fucking sucks.”

            “Yeah.” Peaches kept staring at his beer bottle before finally dropping his head into his hands. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a grumpy dick.”

            “No, it’s understandable. Break ups suck ass. Do you mind me asking how it happened?”

            “I’m a dumb ass.”

            “That’s it?”

            “Mostly.” He glanced at me. “It’s really not that interesting.”

            “So… no cheating scandal?”

            “No.” He shook his head, and the look on his face made me move down a stool so that we sat side by side. Fuck me, I always had a thing for slightly broken people. I normally had no interest in wallflowers, but Peaches seemed like a nice guy, and I enjoyed his friends and fellow band members. It wasn’t like I had any attention from other men in this joint.

            “Wanna talk bout it?”

            “You barely know me. You don’t wanna hear about my drama.”

            “Oh, I _love_ hearing about other people’s drama, because it’s not my own.” I lifted my beer and took a sip. “Order another drink and let’s talk.”

           

***

 

            Peaches and I were both a little drunk, but it worked in our favor, providing grease to a conversation that had a rough start. Eventually Peaches was spilling everything: his rocky childhood, his time spent in foster care, his homelessness stint, his recovery through music, and Essie. He now kept calling him _Eddie_ , who I assumed was the same person. When I asked, Peaches struggled to clarify.

            “He uses both names. I’ve always called him Essie; he seems more comfortable with that name, since he chose it for himself. But… there are times he prefers Eddie, depending on his mood.”

            “Sounds complicated.”

            “It’s not really. He’s just… Essie. That’s how he’s always been.”

            I felt bad for Peaches. He sounded totally wrecked, and I couldn’t help but envy Eddie, because I doubted any guy sounded so broken after breaking up with me. Most of the dudes I had dated cheated on me.

            “So tell me again why you broke up?” I asked, because it had sounded convoluted the first time.

            “I’m a psycho, and Eddie… God, he doesn’t know what he looks like. He doesn’t know how people _see_ him. You’ve met him. He’s attractive, right?”

            “Yeah.” No use denying that Eddie was a hundred percent California jock: tall, blond, fit, tan. I had no idea why Eddie would go for _Peaches_. Not that Peaches was _ugly_ , but to a shallow queen, he wouldn’t make the cut. I liked grungy rocker dudes, so I was willing to forgive his baggy dark clothing and his bumpy Roman nose. In fact, that nose was very quickly growing on me.

            Maybe he had an enormous dick. Size queens could forgive anything for a huge cock.

            “And it drives me _crazy_ , because there’s this guy who he’s been hanging around who is so obviously into him and Eddie won’t admit it. He thinks I’m overreacting, which is _bullshit_. Eddie’s not an idiot. He dated around before me. He knows what sexual interest is like. So because Eddie’s so nonchalant about it, I keep worrying they’re fucking. And then I realize that they _should_ be fucking, because this guy is also gorgeous and takes very impressive artsy photos of Eddie—”

            “A _photographer_? Jesus Christ.” I’d met a lot of “artists” in my life, and I hadn’t found anyone sleazier than a photographer, at least the kind interested in artsy photos of attractive people.

            “I know, right? _Nude_ photos, by the way.”

            “They’re totally fucking. They _have_ to be.”

            “Thank you! Everyone makes it out to seem like I’m some paranoid weirdo for assuming something else is going on, but I’m not crazy. The guy wants to fuck Eddie, and Eddie denying it drives me nuts. He turns it around and makes me think that I’m at fault for not trusting him.”

            “Dude, I would not trust anyone with a goddamn nudey photographer. I don’t care how faithful the dude is.”

            “I know I can get jealous, but it’s not that I don’t trust Eddie. It’s that I don’t trust my own ability to keep people’s interest. I spend my life with the constant anxiety that Eddie will finally figure out how terrible I am and move on.”

            “I’ve met a lot of terrible people, okay? You are not terrible.”

            “How terrible?” Peaches asked.

            I started to tick off my fingers. “Okay, so my first boyfriend was twenty-eight. I was fifteen at the time.”          

            “Shit.”

            “He cheated on me two months into our ‘relationship’, if you can even call it that. Then there was another guy who cheated on me, and after him I briefly dated a guy who committed suicide.”

            “Jesus Christ.”

            “And _then_ , when I was seventeen, my first real boyfriend was a drug dealer. Also about ten years older than me. Once he tried to throw me off a balcony.” When Peaches just stared at me, I continued. “So unless you’ve done any of that shit, you’re not terrible.”

            “You… dated a drug dealer.”

            “Oh, yeah. My first boyfriend got me into cocaine, actually. Spent all of high school snorting coke and blowing dick to get more of it. I nearly flunked out of school before my parents staged an intervention and put me in rehab. I had to go to summer school to graduate.”

            “Wow. I don’t even know what to say.”

            “Dude, your dad _murdered_ your mother. I can’t top that one. Is he still alive?”

            “My dad? Yeah. He’s in prison for thirty years before he’s up for probation. I hope he never gets out. He wasn’t physically abusive to _me_ , but he was a shitty father and I almost preferred foster care. And foster care was hell.”

            “Look at us, swapping sob stories,” I joked, taking a swig from my drink. “This is great. I like this.”

            Peaches gave me a half-smile, which was something.

 

***

 

            Somehow Peaches and I ended up in my car. I had sobered up a bit by the time we ended our conversation, after Peaches had already texted Oliver and Griffin to tell them to head home without him. Instead of taking him home, though, we parked at the edge of a Whole Foods parking lot because we weren’t done talking and he didn’t want to go home yet.

            As someone who tended to have fleeting sexual interactions with strangers, it was more exhilarating to have an emotional connection instead. To be fair, I had crossed over from “he’s cute” to “I want to fuck him” _hours_ ago, but I could keep it in my pants. The dude had just broken up with his hot boyfriend. Even a slut like me didn’t think it was right to take advantage. Still, I wanted to take care of him, wanted to make him _less_ sad, since making him happy wasn’t an option. As evidenced by my messy history with morally questionable men, I had a thing for guys with baggage. Maybe I was stuck in an archaic mindset of _saving_ someone, of showing them what life and love _could_ be like with someone like me. Maybe this was why it never worked out with Josh when we tried to date. Josh had no baggage. He had a supportive family, a happy past, a great sense of humor. He was only self-conscious about his weight, but I’d only learned _that_ after months of friendship. Josh didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. He just made jokes.

            “Is there a word for it?” Peaches asked me as he leaned back in the seat he had reclined in order to stretch out.

            “Femmesexual,” I joked before shrugging. “I don’t know, dude.”

            “Do you have a preference?”

            “Most of the guys I fuck are pretty masculine,” I said. I sat rested my elbows on my raised knees. I’d folded up my legs in order to fit sideways in the driver’s seat. “But it’s not a conscious choice. That’s just the type that hits on me. I can’t even count the number of supposedly ‘straight’ guys who come onto me. Maybe I’m less threatening to their sexuality or something.”

            “Huh. See, ‘straight acting’ dudes, as I guess they’re called, do nothing for me. Oliver and Griffin and them? Ugh. They’re like my brothers.”

            “You’ve never fantasized?”

            “About _Oliver?_ Ew, no.”

            “I don’t believe you,” I replied, laughing. “He’s so hot.”

            “ _Uuugh_ , no. Don’t say that. He’ll hear you, somehow, with his arrogant super powers. The last thing he needs is more people calling him hot.”

            “Okay, _Griffin’s_ hot.”

            “He knows it, too, trust me. Those two are gross. No, I don’t think about my band members like that. Honestly, I’m not attracted to many people. I wondered if I was asexual for a while.”

            “Really? Your tastes are that specific?”  
            “Sort of. They’re a little less so these days. Maybe I was dealing with so much trauma and shit that I didn’t focus on sex and sexual orientation. But fuck, the first time I saw Eddie…” His head fell back against the window and his gaze lifted toward the roof as he sank into the memory. “To be fair, I was starving and homeless, so anyone would have looked like an angel at that point. But you know what he looks like, and _God_ , he was so fucking nice to me, nicer than anyone I’d ever met. He saved my life, and that’s no joke. My mind was in a really dark place and I…” He trailed off, biting his lip. When I didn’t butt in to save him from the silence, he continued. “I mean, I did have suicidal thoughts. I didn’t think anyone would care if I died, which was probably true at that point. And then _he_ shows up wearing this ridiculous outfit… I still remember it, because it was around Christmas and he had on this… reindeer-print sweater and huge blinking Santa earrings.”

            I started laughing, and Peaches joined in. Once it subsided, he continued.

            “I’m serious! He loves the kind of tacky shit you get at cheap gift parties. Anyway, he was volunteering at the homeless shelter, which is how I met him. When he learned I could play drums, he told me that this band he knew was looking for a drummer. Oliver let me move in with him and I got a job, which never would have happened without Eddie.” The joy in Peaches’s face bled away, revealing a deep, sucking sadness that I recognized because I’d felt it before. He covered his mouth with a fist to hide his reaction, but when he closed his eyes, he muttered, “God, I miss him.”

            I reached out and put my hand on his knee, rubbing it gently. I expected Peaches to start crying, but instead he sucked in a deep breath and regained control of himself with impressive speed.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, which he seemed to say a lot whenever he expressed any emotion.   

            “It’s fine. We’ve all been there.”

            “I was hoping to avoid this topic altogether. Unfortunately, I find the task of dissecting my sexual orientation kind of fascinating, and it means talking about Eddie, because… well, he’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but he’s exactly mine.”

            “Gorgeous genderqueer people with shitty fashion sense. Got it.”

            Peaches cracked a smile, even if it was a sad one. “Yeah, pretty much.”

            “That disqualifies me because I have _great_ fashion sense.” I lifted a leg and straightened it, resting the heel of my cowboy boot on the dashboard. “I am also cisgender, though I admit I have a serious addiction to eye shadow.”

            “It looks good on you.”

            “It’s not too much? Lotta guys hate it.”

            “I dated Eddie, so I’m fine with massive amounts of make-up. He really enjoyed putting it on, and I kind of enjoyed watching him do it. The process is magical. But do you go without it?”

            “Sure. When I’m working I try to look as straight as possible, though obviously I’m not very good at that no matter what I do. But I love how I look with it. Plus I’ve still got acne and I look like a creature from the lagoon some days, so foundation helps. When I was little, I loved to put on my mom’s make-up. She thought it was cute.”

            “It’s nice that she wasn’t upset.”

            “Oh no, my faggotry is the one thing that _hasn’t_ upset my mother.”

            Peaches winced.

            “I’m sorry. Not cool with the f-word?” I asked.

            “You have the right to use it but… I just hate it.”

            “I’ll take a note.” Guys who “passed” as straight seemed to hate the word more than queens like me, probably because they hadn’t had it hurled at them by every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the world. Not that Peaches hadn’t seen his share of bullying; he assured me foster care was hell. But these days he could enjoy a fucking drink and meal with friends without being laughed at by the table over. I didn’t have the luxury. The boys in summer school called me a faggot every day, but they also threatened to murder me and rape my mother, so after that, “faggot” didn’t seem like the most terrible insult a fuckwad mouthbreather could lob at me.

            Eventually I had to take Peaches home. His “home” was actually an apartment he shared with Oliver and Griffin. In a normal situation, I would have asked if I could stay over, but my own damn morals held me back. I was into him, and I was pretty sure he was at least a little into me. Please. A guy who admitted and owned up to liking fem men? You could find a lot of “DL” guys on Craigslist who wouldn’t even offer a reach around because they were scared of penises, but most of them wouldn’t look you in the eye and say “hey, I like skinny ass limp-wristed faggot boys” because society frowned on that sort of thing. Peaches was a breed of his own, and for once I wanted to fuck a guy who wasn’t ashamed about me the next day.

            But I also wanted to be a good person and give the guy some space. We’d had our bonding moment, and I’d helped him get through a tough and emotional night. I’d done my duty, and now his healing process could begin while I went home and jacked off in the shower.

            “We should hang out again,” Peaches suggested, which was news I liked to hear. I practically thrust my phone under his nose and asked that he put in his number. I did the same on his phone.

            “I’m gonna need a picture for your number,” I told him when he handed the phone back.

            “Why? My name not good enough?”

            “I’ve got a couple other Peaches on my phone,” I joked. I knew I was flirting. I’d been flirting on and off all night, but I wasn’t sure if Peaches was picking up on it. “Gotta know which one it is.”

            “I hate having my picture taken.”

            “Boohoo, so does every other person on the planet outside of the Kardashians. Come on. Help me out. If you can’t smile, give me a smolder.”

            Peaches instead looked annoyed, and so the picture I took was not the kind you’d take home and masturbate to. Oh well. At least I’d get to see his dorky face whenever he called me. Which he _would_ , because if he didn’t, I’d be calling him.

            Peaches said a final good-bye, waved, and headed toward the apartment building. I watched him walk away until he vanished inside, then sighed and sank deep into the driver’s seat. This was so typical for me—lusting after someone emotionally unavailable until our entire relationship collapsed under the weight of misunderstandings. It was wrong to want a friendship with someone for the sole hope that one day they’d want to bone you, but if Peaches never reached that point—if he just wanted to be friends—it wouldn’t be his fault. This was my own thing I needed to deal with, and as long as I acknowledged that, I convinced myself it was totally fine.

            I shoved the cab into gear and drove off into the night.

           

***

 

            “You were supposed to bring booze.”

            Josh shoved past me into the apartment. “Yeah, as if you don’t drink too much already.”

            I rolled my eyes and followed Josh into the kitchen. With him he’d brought a bag full of different flavored chips and a six pack of soda cans. It wasn’t the most creative movie night smorgasbord, but I couldn’t complain. I was always broke, so I turned to Josh to buy food. Josh didn’t had much money either, even if his job as an EMT was far more difficult and important than mine. Sometimes I sounded like my mother when I pressured him to go to school and get a fucking nursing degree already. Sven managed, and Sven had been baked eighty percent of the time in college. And Josh sounded like me when he said he didn’t have the time or the resources. Unlike me, though, Josh was not an idiot. He _was_ smart, and he was actually really good at taking care of people. Whenever I did something stupid and ended up scraping the shit out of my elbows or knees, it was Nurse Josh to the rescue.

            “Where’s your sister?” Josh asked, already digging into the chips. He held the bag out to me, but I waved it away.

            “Probably doing important college things, I guess. I don’t know. She’s usually out with friends.”

            “Zoe has friends?”

            I snorted and pulled apart the cardboard box to get to the soda inside. “She claims to.”

            “Your sister and my sister are practically the same age. Why don’t they get along like we do?”

            “Because your sister is cool and mine thinks I’m a waste of life.”

            “You think my sister _likes_ me? Psh.”

            I resisted the urge to roll my eyes again. Josh had a great relationship with his younger sister and older brother, and he was so good with his nephew that every grandmother and auntie in the vicinity told him how he’d make such a good dad one day. Meanwhile, I frightened children. Last year when I handed out candy at Halloween, my very appearance made a toddler in a princess dress cry. I hadn’t even been in costume.

            “Take these away from me,” Josh said, handing me the bag of chips.

            “You brought them.”

            “For you, not me.”

            “What are you going to eat? Carrots?” I lifted my eyebrows. “Please tell me you aren’t on another diet.”

            “Fuck diets. They don’t work.” Josh went over to the fridge and tossed it open. On my side was beer and take-out. On Zoe’s, yogurt and fresh produce.

            “How the hell do you stay so skinny?” Josh asked as he grabbed an apple and bit into it.

            “Genetics.”

            “ _Genetics_. I hate them. My whole family is fat. What am I supposed to do about it?”

            “Come to terms with it.”

            “Easy for a skinny person to say. Guys want to have sex with you.”

            I stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining room on my way to the living room couch. Josh followed, crunching his way through his apple. “There are plenty of dudes who like bigger guys.”

            “Yeah, if they’re hairy and muscly, too. I’m just fat.” Josh threw himself down on the couch, wiping away a streak of apple juice that trickled down his chin. I went to our collection of DVDs and sought out _Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace_. Josh and I had agreed to a Star Wars marathon, though mostly it was my pushing it and Josh relenting. Most of my nerdy ways had been buried beneath cocaine and parties in high school, but sometimes a seedling would push up through the dirt, reminding me that I could dork out with the best of them. I’d grown up rewatching the Star Wars trilogy over and over again, and I still had some action figures from childhood that I refused to throw out. When the latest movie came out, I had considered dressing up until my common sense talked me down. I would look ridiculous, and I still felt shame over some of the nerdy stuff I liked. These days Star Wars was pretty mainstream, but I still remembered an old boyfriend laughing when I told him I liked those old _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ movies. _Those movies were so dumb_ , he told me, and while he might not have meant for it to sound critical, it had seemed that way in my mind at the time. I took everything as criticism back then, back when I wanted to be accepted more than anything.

            “At least you pass as straight. Guys like that,” I said, fiddling with the remote.

            Josh snorted. “Yeah, okay. I blast Britney Spears on my way to work.”

            “Let me know when you get called a faggot in public and then we’ll talk.”

            “Damnit Justin, can’t I just complain about being fat without it being a contest over who’s got it worse?”

            I figured out the remote and pushed play. I didn’t watch movies on the television much, especially since Zoe and her friends had taken over the living room. Zoe had bought those awful _LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE_ “paintings” from a craft store and hung them over our boring beige walls with zero self-awareness. I was embarrassed to be her sibling.

            “Fine, I won’t criticize you for criticizing yourself.”

            “I’m not criticizing myself. I’m saying dudes are shallow and it makes dating tough.”

            “You are so melodramatic. How often have you tried to hook up with guys? Actively?”

            “That’s not the po—”

            “ _Zeeero_.” I made a circle with my finger and thumb and leaned toward him, pressing it against his face until he shoved me away. “So until you make an effort, you can’t bitch.”

            “I don’t want to just hook up with guys. That’s what you do. I can’t fuck strangers. It’d be too weird.”

            “That’s what alcohol is for,” I said, taking a sip from my soda.

            “If the only way to have casual sex is to be drunk, I’ll pass.”

            “I’m not always drunk. Sometimes I’ve only had one or two shots.” Josh pursed his lips, and I sighed. “It’s fine if it’s not your thing. But you could try dating.”

            “Dating is awful.”

            “Because you’ve got _sooo_ much experience.”

            “I don’t have to do it to know it’s awful.”

            I didn’t get Josh. I was a scrawny, make-up wearing almost-alcoholic with clown hair and I’d found a fair number of boyfriends, even if they often tended to be shitty people. That was more due to my poor taste in men than it was my looks. Josh was such a great guy, the kind you’d _want_ to take home to see your parents. He was funny and generous and he’d stuck with me when it would have been in his best interest to walk away. And in the brief time we’d dated and fucked, he wasn’t a terrible lover either. But he didn’t seem to draw people to him the way I could, which I chalked up to his terrible attitude, but maybe it was something more, something subconscious. I knew how to date, flirt, and fuck around. Josh was clueless about all of that, and maybe people picked up on it somehow.

            “It’s not really a big deal,” Josh said, nibbling at his apple. “But I want to be a dad, and I don’t want to do it alone.”

            “You’ve got your whole life to be a dad.”

            “I’m not going to adopt a child when I’m sixty.”

            “You gotta put more effort into finding someone then. Check out Grindr.”

            “Yeah, and read through all the profiles that say ‘no fatties’. Do you use it?”

            “Sometimes.”

            “Yeah?”

            “It’s awful, but sometimes a girl gets desperate.”

            Josh made a face, but didn’t say anything. He had never approved of my promiscuity, but he never told me to stop because he knew better. It wasn’t like I slept around when we dated. I was a whore of epic proportions, but I wasn’t a cheater, and I was serious about my relationships in a way that my partner usually wasn’t. It wasn’t so much the sex with strangers I craved. It was just the sex, and if that sex came from my partner, I was happy.

            “Anyway, we should start the movie,” I said, growing tired of the DVD menu tune and animation. Josh nodded, and we settled in to watch. Josh groaned whenever Jar Jar Binks spoke, and I laughed. Josh was great to watch movies with, at least movies I’d seen twenty times already. He was pretty good at commentary, and considering the bad acting and bad writing, Josh’s jokes were welcome. He also didn’t mind when I curled up next to him and put my head on his shoulder. I was a slut for sex _and_ physical contact, even the platonic kind. Years after we gave up trying to date each other, I still liked to cuddle him a bit when he let me. Despite all the ways we weren’t compatible, I missed what we had sometimes, and what he’d been to me. He’d been the only boyfriend who had genuinely cared about me, who treated me well and didn’t yell obscenities at me when he was pissed. He never cheated on me, another rarity. But we approached relationships in opposite ways. He was never serious about anything. He didn’t care much for romantic gestures, and when I texted him throughout the day and called him at night, he told me I was suffocating him. He didn’t use the word “clingy”, but that was the crux of the issue—he liked his space and privacy, and I just wanted to be with him all the time. He didn’t understand why I was upset about him blowing me off. I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t want to be with me more often.

            In the end, we figured out we were better off friends. Still, I missed the good parts, which I couldn’t seem to find in anyone else.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

            “Aw yeah, _take that cock_.”

            _Please shut up_ , I thought, wincing as a guy I had nicknamed Beefhead grabbed my hair and shoved me deeper down onto his dick. _Jesus Christ, let me do it, asshole_. I hated guys who tried to replicate moves they saw in porn. Not that deep throating couldn’t be hot, but this guy had about as much finesse as a bulldozer. I’d won accolades on my blow job skills, but this moron decided he knew better and instead drilled his five inches into my mouth like he was wielding something to write home about.

            This is what happened when I picked guys based on looks alone. He was hot in that stereotypical Californian way—blond, muscled, tall. Not unlike Peaches’s ex, if Peaches’s ex had been devoid of all personality and intelligence. I had hoped that the sex would at least be good, but now I was just waiting for him to finish so I could leave.

            Moments later, he orgasmed, and luckily I did not have to swallow it, since I’d demanded he wear a condom. He’d fought me on it, but after contracting syphilis in high school, I didn’t budge on the matter. I didn’t trust Beefhead to be clean, even if he swore it on his mother’s grave. He could find plenty of horny idiots to do him raw, I’m sure.

            Without even a _thank you_ , the guy zipped up and left. What a fucking tool. He was lucky I barely even had a chubby, or I’d be pissy about lack of reciprocation. As I was climbing to my feet and wiping off my knees, another guy entered, barely glancing at me as he turned to pee. I came here to get off, and I considered making an offer to this guy, who was also pretty gorgeous with his full sleeve tattoos and full beard, but once he finished, he walked out without so much as a once-over. I obviously was not his type.

            With a scowl, I left the bathroom, yanking my phone out of my pocket to call Peaches.

 

***

 

            Peaches and I wound up getting some ice cream and walking down Santa Monica Beach. Because it was a week day and because it was past ten, there weren’t many people out by the water. The wind was a bit snappy, too. It kept pulling at my curls, sometimes tossing them into my mouth and eyes. Peaches offered me the baseball cap he wore, which helped. Eventually we stopped and sat down, sinking into an easy conversation about a wide range of topics, something that helped me forget about Beefhead and all the other assholes I’d offered sexual favors to.

            “Do the tattoos mean anything?” Peaches asked, gesturing toward my full sleeve tattoos.

            I ran a hand up my arm, where lines of black ink dipped and twirled in a senseless and random pattern. “They’re tattoos I doodled when I was in summer school senior year. They don’t really mean anything, except maybe representing the my lowest point in life. Took me forever and a lot of money to complete, but I guess I wanted that mental mark to be physical, something I could point to and say ‘See? I’m still alive. I lived through this.’ I don’t know if that’s stupid.”

            “No, I think it’s awesome.”

            “You got any tattoos?”

            “Nah. Never had any money for one.”

            “What would you get if you wanted to?”

            Peaches snorted. “If you’d have asked me six months ago, I would have said Essie in big fancy letters across my ass.”

            “Be serious!” I insisted around a laugh.

            “I don’t know, man. I think yours are way cooler than anything I could come up with. I’ve lived through a lot, but I wouldn’t want to remind myself of it by tattooing it on my body.”

            “Then you have to tattoo something that makes you happy. You must love music.”

            Peaches’s features softened. “Yeah, there’s that. I could get a drum set.”

            “There you go. You can put _that_ on your ass.”

            “Yeah, a snare drum on one cheek and a cymbal on the other, so people can slap out a rhythm.”

            I burst out laughing, and moments later Peaches joined me. I motioned beating a pair of bongos, which intensified our amusement. By the time we finished, my side was pressed against his as I struggled to gasp for air. Once we’d fallen quiet, I decided to stay where I was, even dropping my head to his shoulder and sighing. Peaches said nothing. In fact, he froze, and I could feel his tension through the few points we were connected. I was afraid to ask him if this was okay, because I didn’t want to risk the chance of being told off. If I didn’t say anything, then the decision was Peaches’s on whether or not to shove me away.

            To my good fortune, Peaches eventually relaxed and slumped, lifting one hand to lightly touch my hair. To my misfortune, he didn’t speak, probably waiting for _me_ to start. So we sat in silence longer than we should have, both confused and a little cautious. Because I’d gotten a sense of how Peaches operated by now, I knew I’d have to take the reins on this conversation.

            I lifted my head, but I didn’t pull away. Instead I turned toward him, bending my legs just enough so that both of my knees sat on top of one of his. Before he could focus too much on that, I spoke.

            “So I know I’m not being very subtle about this, and I’m sorry. My intentions were actually pretty pure.” _Liar_. “I know you’re still reeling from what happened with your ex, and I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

            There was enough light from the street to see that Peaches looked a little lost and torn, like someone stuck at a crossroads. By now I liked his oddly shaped nose, but beyond that he had these brown and droopy puppy eyes that always looked a bit sad. I liked looking at them and into them, even as he avoided my gaze.

            “Peaches? Don’t leave a guy hanging.”

            “I’m sorry,” he said, for probably the millionth time since I’d met him. “I’m not—I don’t get it.”

            “Get _what?”_

“Are you coming onto me?”

            I frowned. “I’m pretty sure that’s obvious.”

            “Why?”

            “ _Why_?”

            “I’m not really used to it. You’re seriously attracted to me?”  
            I resisted the urge to shake him. We all had our insecurities, but this was a little ridiculous. He wasn’t Mr. Universe but he wasn’t _ugly_ , and considering the appearance of your average rocker, he’d have no trouble getting dick or pussy or whatever it was he was into. “Peaches, _come on_.”

            “I’m sor—”

            I was afraid I might get short with him, because that’s what happened when I was impatient and sick of an argument. So instead I rested a hand on his jaw and leaned in to kiss him. He still tasted a bit like the chocolate ice cream cone he’d consumed early. It wasn’t a long kiss, barely a peck on the lips, but he was stunned speechless when I pulled away.

            “Don’t apologize again,” I said. “I have been very obviously flirting with you since we met but I thought you needed a friend more than you needed someone to fuck.”

            Peaches’s lips parted in surprise, and I wanted to kiss him again, for real this time. But I needed his approval or, even better, his desire. So far he hadn’t given me much permission to continue.

            “Peaches?” I asked, needing some kind of answer.

            “I… I do like you,” Peaches forced out. “More than I should. It’s made me feel really guilty because… you know. Essie. I still love him, and I know that’s not fair to you.”

            It wasn’t, and I didn’t like it. But it was a fight between my sex drive and my sense of self-respect. The latter was always lacking, the former always on overdrive. My sex drive had never lost a battle yet.

            “I’m not saying we have to be boyfriends,” I clarified, though that kind of _was_ what I wanted. I hadn’t had a boyfriend in a long time, and fucking strangers like Beefhead at clubs had lost its charm. I _liked_ being in a relationship, evidenced by the clinginess and heavy-handed affection that drove Josh away. But finding guys interested in me as a boyfriend were rare. They’d line up for me to suck their cock, but when I needed one for something long-term, it was just crickets. I’d always remember Alejandro, who I’d dated on the down low in high school. He would swear up and down he loved me in private, but when his friends asked who I was, I once overheard him say _I don’t know who that homo is_.

            I wasn’t bitter. Nope. Not at all.

            Peaches wasn’t like Alejandro. He dated the queenliest of the queens in front of his macho heterosexual friends with no apparent qualms, and I’d be lying if that weren’t a huge factor in why I wanted to date him. I wanted someone who was proud of me and bragged about what a lucky catch I was to all their pals.

            “Then what do you want?” Peaches asked.

            “I’d settle for making out right now. Or sex, but only if you’re up to it.”

            “You want to have sex—”

            “ _Yes, Peaches_ ,” I interjected with a hint of annoyance. Before he could say anything, I swung a leg over his thighs and straddled him, grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt. “I want you to take me home and fuck my goddamn brains out. Am I being clear enough for you?”

            Before Peaches could give me another wide-eyed look, I slammed my mouth against his, holding the back of his head until he melted into the kiss. After an agonizing five seconds, his arms finally slid around my waist, tightening until my stomach was flush with his ribcage. I threw everything I had into the kiss, every trick from my book, and it seemed to be working. Peaches tilted his head all the way back to allow the full weight of my hungry kiss, his lips sliding open to let me in. I wondered if he was thinking of his ex _now_. I threw that thought away before it had time to germinate.

            After a minute or two, Peaches leaned back enough to break the kiss. I knew he felt my erection, because I’d climbed higher up his lap until our groins came in contact, and I was wearing leggings under my long tank top. They didn’t really hide much.

            “We should probably go someplace less public,” he murmured, his eyes still a bit dazed.

            “Great idea. Your place?”

            “Uh, sure. Oliver and Griffin are visiting a friend in Las Vegas tonight.”

            “Why do you live with them?”

            “I did live with Essie, but…” He shrugged. “Ya know.”

            “Right.” My goal was to make sure Peaches didn’t have to say Eddie/Essie’s name for the rest of the night. I pressed on more kiss to his mouth before climbing off and standing. “Let’s get going.”

 

***

 

            The second Peaches closed the door behind us, I was on him like a cougar, pushing him back against the wall and grabbing a handful of his groin until he moaned. I didn’t do this shit slowly or carefully, especially when pent up.

            “Where’s your room?” I gasped into his probing mouth.

            “I don’t have a room.” He pointed over my shoulder. I turned and saw a futon in the living room, dropped down to look more like a bed. “I’ve been sleeping on that.”

            “Are you sure the twins won’t be home?”

            “Nearly sure. But if they do, serves them right. I’ve walked in on Oliver a couple of times doing it in the kitchen… or on the floor.”

            Straight dudes. No shame. I wasn’t hot about fucking on a futon, but who was I to complain? Just yesterday I’d been sucking off Beefhead on a bar bathroom floor. This was practically the Hilton in comparison.

            I grabbed a handful of Peaches’s shirt and led him to the futon, shoving him down seconds before I climbed on top of him. Even in his baggy jeans, I could tell he was hard as hell. I spent a few minutes kissing him on all fours, then dipped my hips down and curled my free hand under his belt. He jolted and moaned as my hand came in contact with his cock. Oh, the things I wanted to do to it. Without preamble, I sat straight and jerked on his belt and zipper, unwrapping him with violent impatience. Peaches didn’t stop me or tell me to slow down. His face was flushed and his lips parted in pleasure, so I took that as consent.

            It would have been smart to demand a condom, considering my condom policy. But fuck it. Peaches had dated the same person for a few years, so I could be less cautious, right? It had been a long time since I’d tasted actual dick, as opposed to latex or whatever passed as “grape flavor”. With only a brief pause to admire Peaches’s weaponry, I ducked down and sucked him deep, forcing him to cry out. To my delight, Peaches did not grab me and shove me onto his dick. He touched the top of my head, but he didn’t push, and so I was allowed to demonstrate the cocksucking skills that got me a bit of a reputation in high school. Peaches’s mouth dropped open but all he could manage were abortive gasps. I tried not to smile in satisfaction.

            Peaches didn’t last long, and despite his stuttering attempt to warn me, I didn’t heed him. I kept my mouth on him through it all, swallowing it all before sitting back up and sweeping away my sweaty curls with a hand.

            “Jesus Christ,” Peaches whispered, rubbing his face.

            “I learned something in high school, I guess.”

            Peaches scrambled to a sit, starting to pull at my clothes. I removed my tank top, kicked off my cowboy boots, and peeled out of my black leggings before he grabbed me around the waist and tossed me onto my back. I didn’t mind a little aggression, and I groaned with appreciation when his hands wrapped around my cock. Right when I was about to ask him if he had any lube for this hand job, he lowered his head and wrapped his mouth around the head of my dick. Okay then. That worked, too.

            So Peaches wasn’t an _expert_ on blow jobs like me (who was, really?) but it became increasingly obvious that he paid attention to me as he worked, because any time I showed any sign of enjoying a particular maneuver, he repeated it until I couldn’t even pretend to keep quiet. This fucking guy. I wondered if this was a skill that came naturally to him or if he’d been taught.

            _Do not think about the man he’s still totally in love with_ , I chided myself just before my orgasm hit and wiped my thoughts clean.

            As I laid there trying to catch my breath, Peaches climbed up the bed and collapsed next to me. He was still wearing all his clothes, except his dick hung out of his jeans. I couldn’t help but laugh a little at the sight. With a sheepish smile, Peaches tucked himself back into his boxers but pulled off his jeans. I tugged at his T-shirt until he removed that as well. He wasn’t any more muscled than I was, but he _did_ have plenty of chest hair, which I had fun carding my fingers through because I barely had any of my own.

            We didn’t spend much time cuddling, because exhaustion dragged us down to sleep. When I woke, it was still dark. I dug around for my messenger bag in hopes of finding my phone. Once I pulled it out, I swiped at the screen to see the time. Four in the morning. My bladder was pretty convinced it was later. Trying not to wake a lightly snoring Peaches, I wandered around the dark apartment like an idiot, trying to locate the bathroom. In a two bedroom apartment, how hard could it be? I was finally able to find it, but I couldn’t help but marvel at all the hair products spilling over the tiny sink. They obviously weren’t Peaches. Whoever said that only gay men were obsessed about their hair was lying. Obviously the twins put in plenty of effort, and why not? Women deserved to fuck men with nice hair.

            When I returned, Peaches was sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. He’d turned on a side table lamp so he could see.

            “Did I wake you up?” I asked as I climbed back onto the futon.

            “Maybe, but it’s fine.” He yawned, stretching his arms over his head. His hand landed on my hip, and he spent a moment looking at the small tattoo I had there of two hearts. “I didn’t see this before.”

            “Yeah, I got them done when I was a stupid sixteen-year-old.”

            “Is that legal?”

            “Nope.”

            “Ah.” Peaches rubbed his thumb along the hearts, and my cock stirred. There was no hiding it, so he lifted his gaze to meet mine.

            The hard and fast fucking had been fun, but I actually liked Peaches for more than just a good dicking, so I craved something meaningful. I leaned over and kissed him softly, sliding my fingers through his chest hair and down his stomach. Peaches accepted my tenderness with some of his own, and once the kissing started, I began to regret it. I could fuck strangers with no regrets, but once my emotions were let out of their cage, they took control, often crashing me into a wall and mangling me past recognition. I really liked this guy. With more tattoos, more bulk, and maybe a better hairdo, he was my dream guy.

            What I should have done was ended the kiss, excused myself, and driven home, promising never to talk to Peaches again. What I _did_ do was throw a leg over Peaches and sit down on his hips, slowly grinding down into him with a soft, vulnerable moan. Peaches ran both hands through my curls and pulled me down into a harder kiss, his cock rising up and resting against my ass. At that point, we all knew what was gonna happen.

            “You a top?” I murmured against his lips.

            “I’m a whatever,” he replied.

            Eddie fucked him? It would be no shock to me if Eddie had a big, beautiful dick just like the rest of him. I tried to murder the image before it came to mind, but it formed anyway, making me imagine Peaches getting driven into the mattress by his Adonis of an ex-boyfriend.

            “You got condoms?” I said, hoping to talk over my own brain’s nonsense.

            “No. But Oliver definitely does. Let me go check.”

            “You know where he keeps his condoms?”

            “He’s got a huge tub of them. Can’t be that hard to find.”

            I lifted myself up so Peaches could roll off the futon, watching his ass with appreciation before he vanished down a short hallway to Oliver’s room. The condoms must have been easy to find, because Peaches came back moments later with a bottle of lube and a rubber.

            “Thank God for slutty friends,” Peaches joked, climbing back onto the futon. He retook his place on his back, and I straddled him again. I had a slight preference for bottoming—I was a “whatever,” just like Peaches—but no matter where my cock went, I wanted to be on top when possible. I liked having control of the situation, and it was either because I enjoyed domination or because I thought so highly of my fucking skills and so poorly of others’. I’d had enough morons like Beefhead fuck me doggy style with no finesse or attention to detail that the position was no longer on the roster of my favorites. Unless things got rough. Which, at least with the guy I’d dated the longest, it sometimes did.

            I went ahead with my usual party trick, sliding the condom on with my mouth. It had been a few weeks since I’d gotten skewered, so it took a moment to loosen myself up. Peaches watched me intensely as I did it, and I gave him a sultry look that may have looked demented; I hadn’t washed off my eye shadow from earlier, so it was probably smeared all the way across my face.

            With all preparations made, I lifted myself up and sank onto Peaches’s length. I let out a long sigh as I did so, taking a moment to appreciate the feel of it. Then the fucking started in earnest. Halfway through, Peaches sat up to grab me around the waist, and we swapped hot, slightly slobbery kisses as I bounced in his lap. His hand wrapped around my dick, and when I threw my head back, he dug his face into my neck, kissing me there instead. Thanks to all the hand action, I came before him, but I kept rocking on top of him until his whole body tightened with completion and he let out a muffled cry into my shoulder.

            The crash felt more gradual this time, and we stayed entwined for a minute, breathing hard and trying to put ourselves back together. When Peaches finally lifted his face from my shoulder, I leaned and kissed him slowly. He pushed my sweaty hair away from my forehead and after pulling back, just _looked_ at me in a way that my heart soar and my stomach plummet. God fucking damnit. I could not lose my shit this time.

            I clambered off his lap, regretting the cool emptiness his length left behind. Peaches slid off the futon again and headed for the bathroom. When he returned, he brought with him a cool washcloth to clean us both with.

            “Please tell me you all have your own washcloths,” I joked.

            “Even wearing a hazmat suit, I wouldn’t touch Oliver’s towels.”

            I chuckled, stretching out on my back to enjoy Peaches’s doting. Once the condom was tossed out and bodily fluids were wiped away, we laid beside each other, staring at the ceiling. After a long and somewhat awkward silence, I turned on my side and rested my head on Peaches’s shoulder, not caring if it made me seem clingy and overly affectionate. In response, Peaches wrapped his arm around my shoulders and trailed a thumb along the lines of the tattoo on my deltoid. How fucking long had it been since I laid in a bed like this with someone while sober? Since I dated Josh a few years ago, maybe. Peaches didn’t seem to think anything of it, even digging his nose into my hair until half of his face was lost in it. He ran his hand through the damp curls, pushing them away from my face and away from my temple and ear where they were the sweatiest.

            A memory of Eddie wandered forward, brief as it was. I recalled his hair, too gold to be dyed. I also remembered the lazy curls around his ears and neck, not thick enough to complete a full curlicue like mine but too tight to be considered “waves”. I wondered if Peaches was thinking about that as he carded his fingers though my hair. I wondered if he was missing Eddie right now, if he’d imagined fucking Eddie instead.

            I pressed my face harder against his chest and wished sleep would fucking arrive already.

 

***

 

            I woke up before Peaches, a miracle for the ages. As I shuffled into the kitchen to look for some edible food, my heart knocked against my chest when someone behind me said, “You’re looking in the wrong cupboard, dude.”

            I twisted around and saw Oliver in the doorway, dressed in a wrinkled shirt and jeans. I was glad I had decided to put on my pants before going to the kitchen, or else Oliver would be treated to a view of my scrawny ass at eight in the morning.

            “When did you show up?” I asked. Dear God, I hoped he hadn’t been here the whole time, sleeping in his room.

            “Half an hour ago. Griffin already passed out. We drove all night to get here from Las Vegas. I gotta go to work in, like, six hours, so I wanna catch some Gs before I head out.” He yawned and scratched his balls. Nice. “You and Peaches do the nasty?”

            “Not really your business,” I muttered as I went to the next cupboard and finally found a large bag of generic-brand Cheerios.

            “Pretty obvious, dude. Unless you sleep naked with all your friends?”

            “I’m not naked.”

            “Peaches probably is. Not that I _checked_ , but he’s such a prude that he doesn’t sleep with his shirt off, so I figure he’s not wearing anything at all. So congrats or whatever. I was hoping he’d go for you. I mean, no offense, but you seem kinda, uh, gay, and he likes that sort of thing.”

            “I seem _gay_?”

            “You know what I mean.”

            “You mean fem.”

            “Is that the PC term?” I stared at him until he sighed. “Look, I don’t give a shit. I’ve known Eddie forever, and if he doesn’t bother me, no one will. It’s Peaches’s _thing_ , Recently he’s been a total wreck because of shit that went down with Eddie. I just wanted him to get out a little and have fun. I wasn’t trying to get him to hook up with someone else, but now that he has, I think it’ll do him good.” Oliver reached into the fridge and pulled out the milk, handing it over to me. “You seem cool, for the record. Way less lame than Eddie.”

            “Gee, thanks.”

            “He’s a good guy and one of my best friends. He can get, like, really depressed, and it freaks the shit out of me, so this is the best I can do in trying to help.”  
            I softened. I was expecting Oliver to come at me like so many macho straight dudes before him, but he seemed to have good intentions, and it was obvious he cared about Peaches. He also didn’t seem to mind that we’d fucked in the living room only four hours prior, so maybe I could write Oliver down as a chill hetero.

            “Anyway, I’m gonna go to bed now. The walls are kinda thin, so if you’re gonna fuck again, do it quietly if you please.”

            “We’re not going to fuck—”

            “Night!” Oliver said, disappearing. I heard him mutter, “Or is it morning?” before his bedroom door opened and closed, beginning a long silence.

            I was able to find the cereal shortly after Oliver left, and by the time Peaches wandered into the kitchen, I was at the table eating. Peaches seemed to be on autopilot, grabbing two slices of bread before moving to the fridge and grabbing a carton of orange juice. It was marked PEACHES’ JUICE in huge Sharpie letters, reading DO NOT TOUCH underneath. When Peaches saw me looking, he smiled.

            “It’s a problem,” he said. “All the liquor anyone would need, and they steal my fucking orange juice.” He sat down at the kitchen table, tossing back some of the orange juice straight from the carton. “I thought I heard Oliver in his room. Did he talk to you when he came in?”

            “Briefly.”

            “I hope he didn’t give you any shit.”

            “No, he was chill.”

            “I’ll be hearing about it later.” Peaches sighed and tapped his fingers across the table. “What are your plans for today?”

            “Work, I guess.”  
            “Anything else?”

            I shrugged. “I can stop by tonight, if you want.”

            Peaches showed some hesitation in answering, but he finally nodded. “That sounds great, actually.”

            “Or you can come by my place, if it’s easier. I have an actual bedroom and bed, and my sister’s usually off doing stuff with her college friends.”

            “You live with your sister?”

            “Half-sister. My step-dad pays most of the rent, so it’s a pretty bitchin’ place considering what I pay.”

            “Must be nice.”

            I snorted, slurping off some milk from my spoon. “He’s a tool. I hate him.”

            “Oh. Sorry.”

            “But yeah, I guess he’s helped me out in some ways. Or his money has. I won’t say I wasn’t privileged in that regard, but he’s such a shithead. If my sister weren’t living with me, he’d never pay half my rent. He’d laugh in my face if I asked. She’s actually his daughter, so he feels like he has to actually be a parent to her.” I sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—you’re not in charge of my baggage.”

            “No, it’s fine. Are you kidding me? Between the twins and me, we’d be paying a premium at airports with all of _our_ baggage.”

            “Really? Oliver and Griffin, too?”

            “They had a rough childhood. They don’t talk about it.”

            That seemed to be a common theme amongst most people I knew. Josh was the exception, and as much as he insisted his family was normal, I refused to believe it.

            Peaches’s toast arrived, and he stood to retrieve it. I would have preferred hanging out in bed all day to working, but bills didn’t pay themselves. When Peaches sat back down, I lifted my legs and rested them across Peaches’s lap. I didn’t make a big deal about it, but I could sense Peaches staring at me even as I looked down into my cereal.

            After half a minute of silence, I felt Peaches’s free hand finally drop down to rest on my calf, and I fought a triumphant smile.

**Author's Note:**

> See more information/artwork for this series here: https://wandawalkerwrites.wordpress.com/the-reflections-trilogy/


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